


love's old song

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Florist Hank, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Human AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Tattoo artist Connor, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-05 18:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Hank Anderson owns a florist in downtown Detroit city. Life is what life is, until one day, a young tattoo artist walks into his shop in search of roses.





	1. let the flower open

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic i've ever posted in any fandom. blame these terrible men and their sweet hearts. come and shout at me on twitter: @andpersephone

for everything that's been  
for all that's yet to come  
brow full of moonbeams  
singing love's old song

* * *

Spring has always been Hank’s favourite time of the year. 

The mornings start to glow brighter around the edges, each blue dawn filtering gradually in through the curtains of his bedroom. He rises slowly, shifting Sumo’s heavy form from where the dog has spent the night curled up in a warm lump at the end of his bed. 

Light makes the mornings a little easier. Hank falls into the comfort of his daily routine, sending coffee dripping lazily through into the pot, watching through the window as the sun begins to turn the clouded glass gold and then bright, blinding white. He showers, mechanical and practised, doing his very best not to think too much about anything, just the steady press of the next twelve hours. 

At seven, he lets Sumo out into the tiny space behind their building, where he gleefully lollops for a while, doing his business on the courageous weeds that have managed to crack their way through the concrete patio. Three days a week, he opens up the back of the garden - if you can call a space where nothing grows a garden - and accepts crates of deliveries for sale in the store.

Bunches of flowers stored in cool boxes to keep their blooms fresh, which he unloads and stores in the tall racks around the shop floor. Armfuls of round, bright chrysanthemums like the heads of fireworks. Pale sprigs of baby’s breath, which he adds to bouquets to give them volume. Delicate orchids with long stems and boxes of thick, hardy greenery. 

And roses, all year, roses. In February, he sold more than a hundred red roses, dethorned and with petals the colour of wine.

Anderson’s Florist sits on a crowded street in Detroit’s downtown, close enough to the freeway that a good deal of business comes from panicked commuters, rushing in just before closing time and buying the first thing that Hank even thinks about setting his hands on. He knows that in this area of the city he’s lucky to have somewhere to live so close to his place of work; the shop and the apartment above it were handed down from his mother, purchased at a time when Detroit was brighter, slicker, more promising.

Although he’d managed to work in relatively comfortable solitude for a long time, the past few years - weighing heavy and dark across his shoulders, pulling at him from every angle - have convinced him to take on extra help in the store.

Whether that was a good decision or not remains to be seen. 

Gavin generally arrives just after eight, a cup of coffee in one hand and his cellphone in the other. Their relationship extends absolutely no further than its professional boundaries, in fact Hank doesn’t really think he knows that much about Gavin apart from that he understands a lot about technology and a little about flowers. He mostly deals with online orders, the sort that mount up in blinding lines on the store’s old desktop monitor, quickly becoming incomprehensible to Hank. A few months ago, he mentioned that he’d started an Instagram account for Anderson’s. Hank’s always been a little skeptical about the benefits of social media, but Gavin seems to know what he’s doing and Hank trusts him - with this, at least. He wonders how many online personalities the guy cultivates on the daily.

This particular early May morning promises a warm day at last, blooming golden and bright on the horizon. April had been unseasonably cold and wet, and in Detroit, that was saying something. Snow had threatened at the edges of the weather forecast right up until a week or so ago. There was not much call for flowers when the streets were being lashed with rain and the temperature rarely got anywhere close to fifty degrees. 

But May is different, the world finally settled into the stride of spring, and Hank knows that the gentle warmth will soon been replaced by the sticky, heavy heat that comes with summer in a city. He tries to make the most of those easy spring mornings while they last. 

The final delivery of the week has just arrived and the store is filled with the fragrance of hundreds of new blooms. Spring brings with it more seasonal flowers: anemones with their bold petals and great dark centres, shiny tulips in a vast rainbow of different colours. Purple hyacinths, which make the shop smell like no other; customers always comment brightly when Hank has hyacinths in stock.

There’s the faint jingle of the bell above the door as Gavin lets himself in. It’s these sort of quaint intricacies to the store that hark to Hank’s mother’s presence in the business, the bell, the old cash register barely rings up anymore, the worn wooden counter. 

“Morning, Gavin.” Hank places a bunch of yellow carnations into one of the buckets and Gavin barely even glances across at him. “Drag the rest of those crates in for me, would you?”

Gavin throws him a look and Hank wants very badly to preface his request with _do what I pay you for_ , but he can sense that Gavin hasn’t quite had enough of his daily quota of coffee to be fucked with just yet.

All the same, he does what he’s told and hefts the crates through onto the main shop floor, helping Hank unload them.

They unlock the door at nine, although customers don’t often come in so early. A couple of people come in to browse at the collection of cards and other small gifts that Hank stocks in case anyone wants to buy them alongside their flowers. Mostly they deal with the build up of overnight online orders, making a good team, much to Gavin’s apparent annoyance. Hank creates the bouquets and Gavin checks them off, readying them for pick up. 

Had Gavin been a bit more of an accommodating personality, Hank might have said that their silent, purposeful way of working was almost companionable. 

Customer footfall picks up about lunch time, people popping in on their breaks to pick up bouquets and gift baskets, presumably to take home with them at the end of the working day. Hank makes two separate and identical bouquets for a huge man in a long overcoat - both of them a modest collection of white carnations and bright, yellow roses.

As Hank is hastily clearing away from the lunchtime rush, Gavin cashes his order. He can’t - or doesn’t - hide stupid grin on his face as he looks between the two arrangements. 

“Two, huh?”

“Yes.” The man’s voice is low and dark, with a edge to it that very clearly says _do not fuck with me_. As if his hulking form wasn’t enough of a deterrent.

“They’re the same.” Gavin’s a dumbass though, Hank’s learned. Even with complete strangers, he’ll push and push just to see what their reactions will be, which is why Hank usually prefers to deal with the public himself.

“One is for my wife. The other is for my daughter.” The customer’s face is as cool and impassive as a statue. 

“Oh. I thought-”

“Yes. I’ll just take the flowers,” he interrupts and, much to his credit, Gavin looks a little mollified, eyes wide. Hank turns to throw some offcuts in the trash, so that he has an excuse to hide his grin from the pair of them. It’s worth the potential lost return custom to see Gavin’s cheeks colour bright red. “Thank you.”

“Restock those from out the back, would you?” Hank asks, once the door has clicked shut and the store is empty again. “Nice and cool out there.” He can’t help himself, and the flush spreads right to the tips of Gavin’s ears. He heads out to the back, where Hank can hear him clattering around noisily in the storage freezer.

He returns about fifteen minutes later, the furrow between his eyebrows returned to its rightful place and his arms full of fresh carnations.

“I’m gonna take my break now,” he announces, spreading the flowers rather unceremoniously between several buckets. It’s not a question and Hank wonders briefly what would happen if he were to say no. 

“Alright,” is what he goes for in the end, considering that the lunchtime rush is over and they’re unlikely to have many customers for the next couple of hours. Gavin’s pretty much out the door though, grabbing his cellphone and a crumpled packet of cigarettes from beneath the counter. 

With Gavin gone, Hank checks the computer tentatively - nothing new, as far as he can tell - and sets about taking stock of what they have left out on the floor.

Before long, he can hear a familiar whining and scratching at the back door. Sumo normally spends his days curled up on his bed at the far end of the store, receiving any number of pats and good boys from customers with endless good humour. Hank takes him out for his first walk on his own break - either a _‘Back in half an hour!’_ sign goes up on the door or Hank throws the fate of his business to the wind, depending on Gavin’s mood. 

But Hank hasn’t taken his break yet today, and he feels a little bad as Sumo looks up at him with his big, dark eyes. Positively mournful.

“Alright boy, c’mon then,” he opens the back door and Sumo gambles out, chasing after god only knows what and then cocking his leg joyfully against the fence.

Hank watches him roam for a minute or two. He likes the pace of running this business because it keeps him occupied, always something to do, hardly ever a quiet moment like this where he can be completely alone with his thoughts. That’s why he keeps Gavin around - even though most bosses probably would have fired his grumpy ass a week into his employment - another body to bounce off of, to consider and to engage with. And despite what Hank might like to think, his social media forays really have been driving up custom. 

The gentle sound of the bell snaps him from his reverie. Gavin’s only been gone for a quarter of an hour - and god knows, he’ll stretch out every second of his allotted break - so Hank calls Sumo back in with a sharp whistle from between his teeth. The dog looks begrudging but wanders back inside anyway, padding heavily over to the young man standing at the door.

“Sorry, he’s alright, he won’t-” But even with the briefest of permissions from Hank the customer crouches down, petting Sumo gently between the ears. He lets out a soft, friendly _boof_ , pressing his wet nose into the man’s upper arm.

“Don’t worry,” he answers, and although all Hank can see is the top of a head of dark, curly hair, he can hear the smile in his voice. “I like dogs. What’s his name?”

“Sumo. I call him Sumo.” Hank replies, leaning against the counter to watch the pair of them.

“ _Sumo_ , nice to meet you. My name’s Connor.”

Connor holds out his hand flat, palm up, as if expecting Sumo to put his paw into it. Instead, he cocks his head and makes a confused sound, which Hank knows means _if your hand doesn’t contain food, why are you offering it to me?_ Hank grins, a little sheepishly.

“Uh - he’s not really that kind of dog. He can just about manage - hey, Sumo. Sit.” Sumo turns reluctantly away from his new friend and comes to sit at Hank’s feet.

“Good boy,” Connor comments, straightening up.

And Hank looks into his face for the first time. He must be about thirty, with a narrow nose and a square jawline. The curls of his hair tumble roughly over his left eyebrow, and his eyes are a sweet, amber-brown, the colour of chestnuts. Hank notices - and it’s a goddamned stupid thing to notice, he tells himself - that he has a generous dusting of freckles across the pale skin of his face. 

He’s wearing a white shirt, with the cuffs rolled away from his narrow wrists. 

“Thanks,” Connor says, and it takes Hank a second to compute that he’s thanking him for letting him pet Sumo. “I’m looking for something for my mother,” he continues, and Hank can’t help but note the stilted way he pronounces the last word, like it’s a formal title, heavy with frightened reverence. 

“For mother’s day?” Hank mentally shakes himself free of the colour of Connor’s eyes and back into the task at hand. _Floristry. Flowers._ A bouquet for the man with a single, dark freckle right on the bridge of his nose.

“Actually, it’s her birthday right around mother’s day.”

“What kind of thing are you looking for?” Hank asks, heading over to the racks of flowers. Sumo, apparently bored with the lack of attention he’s now receiving, has slumped himself back down on his bed against the far wall.

“She likes roses,” Connor comments, reaching out to ghost his fingers over the heads of a few damask roses, huge and bright pink. Hank watches his fingers as they move over the petals; his nails are stained a little around the edges with what looks like dark green ink. “Red ones.”

“A bit romantic by themselves, red roses,” Hank grins, scanning his stock. He puts arrangements together in his head - alongside the roses, red and purple, red and yellow, red and white. “How much are you looking to spend?”

In Hank’s brief moment of thought, Connor has stepped closer to him, examining a spray of orange lilies, their anthers thick with golden pollen. He’s close enough that even under the sweetness of the flowers, Hank can smell the bright notes of his cologne. And underneath that lingers something sharper, metallic. “Fifty dollars?”

Hank’s thankful for that, at least - too often customers expect him to be able to create them a luxurious, full-blown arrangement for the paltry ten dollars that they dug up out of the bottom of their purse. The man seems sensible.

“Well, we can start with the roses,” he takes a selection of red roses from their stand, most of the blooms still tightly closed and silken. 

“And - I think something white to go with them?” Hank suggests. Connor nods his agreement.

“These?”

“Good choice,” Hank smiles, and he’s not lying. Their bell shape mirrors that of the roses, but the petals are more translucent, offering a lightness to the whole arrangement. “White lisianthus.”

“A prairie flower,” Connor comments absentmindedly. “She’d like that.”

Hank makes a noise of assent, picking up the lisianthus blooms and fitting them into his hand beside the roses. Unbidden, the image of Connor surrounded by heat and light and white flowers growing through the cracks in the golden earth comes fully fledged into his mind’s eye. He wonders if his face colours enough for it to be noticeable.

“You know about flowers?” Hank asks. The question sounds a little dense as soon as it’s left his lips.

“Oh. Not really.” Connor has moved away from him again, one slender finger hesitating over a velvety orchid head. “I tattoo them mostly.”

“Tattoo them?” He imagines those hands pressing ink indelibly into skin.

“I work at Jericho - the tattoo parlour. It’s a few stores down.”

Of course. Hank knows the place, it has a dark, painted facade and wide windows filled with images of the pieces that their artists have tattooed. He’s passed it plenty of times on his walks with Sumo, although he’s never really given it a second thought as part of his neighbourhood.

A few moments pass while Hank assembles the white and red blooms together in his hand. They look good, and will be almost complete with a few sprays of greenery, but still, something is missing.

“That’s about thirty-five dollars so far,” he says, eyes drifting over to where Connor is standing. He imagines the orchids nestled in to the bouquet, their soft, open petals like white faces amongst the other flowers. “How about a few of those?”

Unasked, Connor picks up one of the white orchids and hands it to Hank.

It’s sweet, unnecessarily familiar, and Hank feels something in his chest curl up around his heart.

“Come over to the counter and I’ll finish them up for you.” 

They head over to the wide wooden counter and Hank adds a few feathery ferns to the flowers, before wrapping the whole thing in patterned cellophane. Connor watches him work, and Hank feels unusually scrutinised beneath his gaze. In the quiet between them, he can hear Sumo’s gentle snoring from the corner, the low rumble of a car passing by on the street outside. 

“Do you work here by yourself?” Connor asks, breaking their silence. Hank can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested or if he’s just the kind of person who can’t stand extended periods of quiet. In spite of himself, he hopes it’s the former.

“No. I used to, before-” he spreads his hands, allowing the sentence to hang precariously between them. Although his eyebrow cocks a little curiously, Connor doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “No, there’s another guy who works here.”

“Is he your apprentice?”

“God, no!” Hank can’t help but laugh at the thought that Gavin might be able to listen to him long enough to learn anything of value from him. “No. He checks online orders, runs social media. Stuff this old man’s no good at.”

Connor smiles, but he doesn’t say anything more. Perhaps he’s out of questions. 

“That’s forty-eight fifty. Did you want to write a gift card to go inside?” 

Connor peruses the collection of notecards in front of the register: bright for birthdays, neutral and classic for sympathy. In the end, he chooses something with very little embellishment, no embossed birthday wishes, just a simple white background with a single flower printed on it in deep red. 

Hank thinks it goes well with the bouquet, even if it is a little stilted for a birthday. People’s choices in flowers say a lot about them and their relationship with the recipient, and Hank can’t help but wonder about this man and his mother - the formality of his chosen arrangement, a far cry from the sunflowers and daisies that he usually sells people for their mothers. He ties a length of dark green ribbon around the cluster of stems. 

Connor borrows a pen from behind the counter and fills in the card right then and there. His writing is a neat, easy print and Hank can read it perfectly upside down. _Dear Mother, Happy Birthday. With love, Connor_ \- and then he hesitates, as if he is considering adding another name after his own. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t add anything else at all, just leaves his own name hanging, perfect and open, black on white. 

Hank takes the card from him and nestles it into the bouquet before handing it over. The cellophane and tissue paper crinkle as Connor takes it from him.

“They’re perfect. Thank you.” 

He smiles and Hank has to swallow, hard, before he can speak.

“Happy to help.”

“Can I take one of these?” He asks, indicating the stack of Hank’s business cards, which stand to one side of the register. They were Gavin’s idea, actually, and as Connor reaches out for one, he can’t help but feel a rare swell of gratitude towards his colleague.

“Sure.”

Connor hands Hank a fifty across the counter and shakes his head when he tries to give him his change. “Keep it. I’ll come to you if I ever need any more flowers.” With his free hand, he flips the business card over. “ _Hank._ ”

In the other man’s voice, the syllable sounds light and clear, none of the military heaviness and dullness that he’s always associated with his own name. 

“And I’ll come to you if I ever need any more tattoos.” He fights the stupid urge to say Connor’s name back at him, simply to find out how it might taste in his mouth.

“More?” It was a flippant comment, not intended to suggest anything particular, but it seems to have piqued Connor’s interest all the same; his eyes flick down to Hank’s bare forearms, then up to his neck and the collar of his shirt. He swears he can feel the piece on his chest burning brighter beneath his enquiring gaze.

“They’re more than twenty years old,” Hank shrugs. Truthfully, it feels like a lifetime. “Not sure I’m in the market for them anymore.” 

“Oh.” Connor’s expression is absolutely impassive. “That’s a shame.”

Hank isn’t really sure what to say to that, but he can feel his neck colour at the insinuation that he might want to see him again. Connor’s skin, on the other hand, is as pale and forgiving as marble. 

“I hope your mother likes her flowers,” is what he settles on in the end. 

He can see Connor’s shoulders stiffen a little, as though he had forgotten exactly why he had come into the store in the first place. 

“Yes. I hope so too.”

There’s a beat between them and Hank wonders if Connor is going to offer some further information about his mother and her roses.

“I should get back to work. Thank you again.” He says, sliding Hank’s business card into the front pocket of his dark jeans. 

“Happy to help,” Hank replies. “Again.”

“Nice to meet you, Sumo.” He says from the doorway, and Sumo’s raises his head hopefully at the sound of his name.

The door closes with a click, and he’s gone. Hank exhales a breath that he wasn’t even aware he had been holding, and wearily rubs one hand over his beard.

“Huh.” Sumo heaves himself up heavily and pads over to where Hank is standing, nudging his thigh with his big, wet nose. “Jesus. I’m too old for this, Sumo.” Sumo makes a low noise which sounds to him like complete agreement. Yes Hank, you are far too old to be getting tongue-tied and heart-eyed over pretty customers and their delicate hands that routinely stab needles into people for a living.

He sets about clearing the counter again, trying in vain not to think about the possibility that Connor might return.

When the door does open, five minutes later, he can’t help but start a little. But it’s just Gavin, storming in gracelessly with a half eaten sandwich in one hand and a takeaway coffee cup in the other. He smells faintly of cigarettes. 

“The fuck happened?” He comments, looking somewhat accusingly towards Hank.

“What d’you mean?” Maybe his neck is still flushed, how embarrassingly teenage of him. 

“You look like you just saw a ghost or something.” Gavin shoves the last of his sandwich into his mouth and throws the coffee cup into the trash bin with all the flower waste.

“Put it in the bin out back,” Hank says, a little annoyed. It’s as if Gavin deliberately forgets the basics of the store’s structure, just to spite him. Despite his frustration at the ineptitude, Hank’s quite glad that he has an excuse not to further continue on with Gavin’s line of interrogation.

Gavin does as Hank says, albeit with a heavy eye roll in his direction.

That night when he’s lying in bed, Sumo’s warmth on his feet and his head slightly softened by whisky, he can’t help but think of his afternoon customer. Connor - with his clear brown eyes and his pretty, sad smile.


	2. binding it together

so our hearts  
must heed the flow  
of deeper tides that run

* * *

The week before mother’s day is, without fail, one of the busiest of Hank’s year. Comparable only with the slew of red roses on Valentines Day, the shop fills with yellows and purples, bright white daisies and carnations of every shade. 

He and Gavin keep the shop open late on both Friday and Saturday evening, and Hank starts working two hours early on the Sunday to allow for all of their delivery orders to be fulfilled to standard. The store, which is not normally filled with people, has a line almost out of the door. Hank sells so many gerberas that he swears he’ll be seeing their brilliant, shining heads in his dreams for the next few weeks.

It’s so busy that Hank almost forgets about Connor and his brown eyes. He immerses himself in endless sprays and bouquets, anything from small bunches of tulips purchased by children with a handful of change, hot from the heat of their palms, to extravagant arrangements which cost more than a hundred dollars. Vans arrive to pick up deliveries for all around the city, hundreds of mothers receiving many thousands of flowers. By the end of the day, Hank has blisters on the palms of his hands from the speed at which he’s been working with his scissors. 

Hank sends his own mother a bouquet via a Florida courier company. He’s not sure that the flowers in the south will live up to her exacting standards - _it’s always too hot for them_ , she would say over the phone, _they can’t get enough water in this heat, they’re all drooping!_ \- but he knows it’s the thought that counts. One of the benefits of running a florist, it’s almost impossible for national holidays to pass you by. 

After the incredible rush of the weekend has died down, Monday feels empty, suspended and directionless with days and days of a normal week strung out ahead of it. Hank gives Gavin the day off and spends the morning with the ‘Sorry - Closed’ sign resolutely pressed up against the front window, sitting at the counter to sort out the ends of accounts that have come loose in the flurry of sudden sales.

Just before noon, he takes Sumo for a walk in one of the parks along the riverfront. It’s a little more than a strip of hard scrub along the banks of the Detroit, but Sumo’s beside himself with joy at being outside so early in the day. The world must smell very different at this time, because he stops to sniff every tree, every patch of long grass. For a dog who spends most of his days inside a flower shop, he certainly doesn’t seem to be bored with the sights and smells of the world around him. 

Hank sits on a bench and admires his boisterous innocence as he chases a pigeon out over the water.

With Sumo thoroughly exhausted from his escapades, they make their way slowly back to the store. A little begrudgingly, Hank turns the sign hanging in the window to ‘Come in - We’re Open!’ and Sumo slumps himself down heavily in the corner. 

As the afternoon wears on, there are a few customers, but nothing Hank can’t handle by himself - especially after the rush of the weekend - and he’s glad that he gave Gavin the day off. He wonders for a moment about the sort of things that his colleague might get up to on a weekday off, but decides that the likely intricacies of the inner workings of Gavin’s life are not worth contemplating. He makes a birthday bouquet, picks out some roses for a dinner party, puts together a late mother’s day gift for a rather sheepish looking man with a young child in tow. 

The work is easy and comfortable, and it feels even more purposeful after his morning spent with his dog, out in the sun.

Around four, the door opens and Hank recognises the man standing there, lit from behind by the late afternoon sun. Almost forgotten.

Something in Hank’s chest jumps sharply at the sight of Connor, at the light that catches on the edges of his dark hair and turns them burnished and bright. He’s dressed for the warmer day, this time in a crisp, navy shirt with short sleeves.

Where he might’ve expected to see pale, freckled skin to match that of his face, instead, Connor’s arms are covered in tattoos. 

The designs snake across from beneath the sleeves of his shirt and down to his mid forearms, etched right across the soft crook in his elbow. Hank can’t help but look, although there’s a lot to take in at once. Hank can see delicate mandala style patterns on his left arm, which lead through to what look like bright, vibrant brushstrokes. A bird - a dove, perhaps - seems to take flight between the colours and up into his sleeve.

Most notable of all is a collection of three red roses on his right bicep, their design abstract, with wide black lines, like stained glass. Hank remembers his mother’s bouquet.

He wants to look longer, to ask him to turn up his cuffs, but-

“Hi.” Hank wonders how long he’s been staring, because Connor’s voice is just a few tones short of waving his hand in front of his face. 

“Hi.” Hank wants to tell him that it’s good to see him again, that he’d thought about the colour of his eyes long after he’d left the shop that day with his armful of flowers. That seeing him now makes something weird and long-forgotten flip back and forth in his stomach. He settles on something far more professional, and far more dull. “Did your mom like her flowers?”

“I think so.” His smile is polite and Hank immediately regrets bringing it up, remembering how the discussion of his mother had made him so stilted and unforthcoming before. “She’s a bit of a perfectionist. No roses are as good as her roses.”

Hank is charmed by his honesty, although he’s not sure if that’s exactly the kind of thing that you should say to someone who sells flowers for a living.

“And you’re back to prove her wrong?” 

“Not this time,” his expression relaxes, evidently glad at being given the opportunity to change the subject. His shoulders soften markedly, and Hank can’t help but think how very handsome he looks without all that tension held tight in his jaw. “I was actually looking for something for myself.”

“Oh. Anything in particular?” It’s less common that people buy bespoke bouquets for themselves, but it’s not unheard of, usually they’re just something to brighten up an apartment or a new office space. Connor moves over to the racks of flowers and Hank watches him from behind the counter as he examines a selection of heathers, lavender and white, and some tall, proud irises. A moment passes before he turns back to Hank.

“I’d like something to draw.”

“To draw?” He’s not sure that’s he’s heard him correctly, but Connor nods in clarification. 

“I’m designing a few tattoos traditionally and,” he punctuates his words with a light shrug, “I prefer to draw from life.”

“Alright. Well, we can do that,” Hank says, although doesn’t think he’s ever been asked to intentionally create something that is going to act as a still life before. “Did you just want to choose a selection?” 

“No, it’s okay.” Connor smiles again and Hank’s chest does that weird thing that it keeps doing whenever the man looks in his direction. “I trust you.”

So Hank chooses for him. Mostly purple blooms, judging by what he’d been looking at before, irises and dark tulips. Three freesias that are still tightly closed, but that he knows will open in a few days to show petals of the palest, sweetest periwinkle. A few sprigs of heather and some early season marigolds to bring out the yellow daubs in the irises. Despite the tattoo on Connor’s arm, he stays away from the roses. Connor trusts him, after all.

“Thank you,” Connor says, as Hank heads back behind the counter and ties the flowers with a length of yellow raffia paper. As they’re not a gift, he doesn’t wrap them up in cellophane, and he thinks they look a little like a wildflower selection - rough and charming. 

“That’s thirty dollars,” Hank says. It’s not. It’s far closer to forty, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to give Connor as many excuses as possible to come back to his store.

He pulls a slim black wallet from his pocket and hands him two crisp notes. As Hank gives him the flowers, Connor’s fingers wrap over his own, just for the briefest of moments.

“Are you working on your own again?” Connor asks, cradling the bouquet in his arms. One of the irises brushes up against the roses pressed on his skin. 

Hank nods. “We had a busy weekend. Gotta let the guy have a day off sometime.” 

“Of course. I saw.” Connor pauses and looks a little embarrassed, as though he’s been caught out in some way. “I mean, I came by at the weekend but the line was almost out the door, so…”

So you’re here now, Hank thinks. But you would have come back sooner.

“Anyway. Thank you, Hank.” Again, his name in that easy, light tone. Hank can’t remember if his name has ever been spoken so brightly. 

“‘Bye, Sumo!” Sumo doesn’t even stir from where he’s collapsed in the corner, drooling unattractively onto the cushion of his bed. 

“Tired out?” Connor asks at the lack of response, a little crease of feigned upset appearing between his eyebrows. 

“I took him out this morning,” Hank explains. “He never gets to chase the morning pigeons. It was very exciting for him.”

Connor grins, although Hank’s fully aware that his attempt at a joke is pretty lame, and he suspects that the smile is probably no more than him being politely humoured. With a final goodbye, Connor leaves the store, the bell chiming gently into the silence that clamours behind him.

Despite the cheap flowers and Connor’s evident and frankly endearing interest in his dog, Hank doesn’t really expect him to come back. Hank’s always enjoyed the professional, distant relationships that he has with his customers - a few enquiries as he picks appropriate flowers, their civil questions in response. Of course, there are a few familiar faces who return to the store on special occasions, but mostly the small talk is superficial, the kind of chatter that he enjoys, easy and free of emotion. 

Even when people ask sombrely for flowers for gravesides - sometimes the smallest, brightest bouquets - he finds that he can distance himself, focus on the arrangement and send the attachment out of the door with the customer.

He expects the same for Connor. Even with the feeling that had curled in his chest beneath the man’s clear, serious gaze, and his spontaneous discounts in the hope that they might encourage a return, he fully expects any kind of emotion to unstick itself and breeze right out of the door with the flowers.

But he’s wrong, and, he thinks, he’s glad of that. 

Connor comes back a week later, asking again for something that he can sketch. Gavin is in the back, stock checking the flowers from the morning’s delivery, and Hank prays to all the higher powers that he doesn’t finish this time consuming job early. He’s unsubtle at the best of times, and would certainly ask enough questions of Hank to pull out from the very depths of him some vague description of the attraction that he’s developing towards Connor. 

It’s not even something Hank wants to examine at the moment. He’s happy just to keep seeing the man smile at his flowers.

Thankfully, Gavin stays in the storeroom and leaves the pair of them to it, with Sumo padding affectionately around Connor’s knees. This time Hank creates him a slimline bouquet of birds of paradise flowers, a new addition to the store which Connor seems drawn to, following their unusually shaped petals with the pad of his index finger. 

Again, he charges him thirty dollars.

 _Can something be a routine if it’s only happened four times?_ Hank thinks, the next Monday, when Connor comes into his store for the fourth time. _Well, they’re the best flowers in Detroit,_ he says, when Hank questions him. Hank’s sure that’s not true, and it must just be the proximity of his store to the tattoo parlour. Naturally. That must be it.

“I like these,” Connor comments, as he leans close to a bucket filled with alstroemeria. Their bright yellow heads seem to sway towards him. 

Hank adds them to the collection that he has growing in his hand. This time, it seems to be coming together less under Hank’s professional input as a florist and more under what takes Connor’s fancy - it certainly doesn’t look like a typical arrangement that Hank would put together. 

He chooses a few more blooms and Hank adds some sprigs of baby’s breath, like clouds winding in between the streaks of bright colour that Connor has selected - yellows, whites, purples. Perhaps he’s too much of a traditionalist, because Connor’s choices have something unique and modern about them, a mismatch that seems to work well when put together as a whole.

Hank takes the whole lot behind the counter and wraps it up, ringing up their usual thirty dollars on the register. _Their usual._ He feels ridiculous for a second as Connor gives him the money and takes his strange, beautiful collection of flowers.

“I bought you something,” he says and reaches inside his pocket and to pull out a piece of paper, proffering it to Hank. It’s a very beautiful, very delicate painting of a single bird of paradise stem, its vibrant oranges and purples muted out into sweet, cool pastels. “I thought they were wonderful.”

Hank feels a swell of affection towards him at the gesture. It rolls up in a wave to the top of his chest and he has to take a moment before he can talk. Instead of speaking, he takes the painting from him - it’s no larger than that palm of his hand. 

“Thank you.” Hank pauses, his free hand resting on the counter between them. Words swim, unbidden to the front of his mind, and he considers them for a moment, they’re too forward, surely. Connor doesn’t want to hear them, he tells himself. And then - _oh, fuck it._

“You know, if you just wanted to draw the flowers, you could come by any time.”

Connor stares steadily at him.

"If you liked.” Shut up, Hank. Give the guy a chance to get a word in edgeways. 

Over Connor’s silence, he can hear his mother’s voice in his head. _Don’t be an idiot, Henry, think of the accounts._

As if on cue from whatever entity decided to warn Hank that offering Connor - pretty, young, and a virtual stranger - a free pass to spend more time with him was probably a bad idea, the door to the store opens. The woman who enters looks a little anxious, bringing with her a kind of restless, end of the day shopper energy that interrupts the tension stretched in the wake of Hank’s suggestion. The taut wire snaps and falls loose around all of their feet.

“Hi!” She approaches the counter and Hank scrambles, in the wake of his evident stupidity, to gather himself into some semblance of professionalism. Connor looks a little affronted by the sudden shift in atmosphere and takes a step back. 

“Thanks, Hank,” is all he says. He gives him a little wave, too, and Hank can’t tell whether the expression on his face is reads as positive or as _dear God let me get out of this weird man’s store._ “See you.”

And he’s gone. Hank waits, in vain, for the tightness in his chest to peel away and float out of the door with him. _You should have kept your mouth shut_ , he thinks, and he’s pretty sure it’s his own dumb voice he’s hearing this time and not his mother’s.

“I was wondering if you did weddings,” the woman asks, clearly unaware of whatever it is that she’s just interrupted. Her hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, is coloured a vibrant electric blue.

“Yes, we do.” 

“Oh, that’s great,” she gives a heavy, relieved sigh and braces her hands on the counter. Hank takes note of the fact that she’s wearing a narrow silver band on her left ring finger. Figures, really. “My partner and I are getting married in three weeks and-”

“Three _weeks_?” The possibility of arranging flowers for a wedding with less that a month’s notice brings his consciousness crashing into the present moment, away from thoughts of Connor and his own social ineptitude.

“It’s kind of a shotgun thing.”

She looks so suddenly despondent at the shock in Hank’s voice that he feels intensely sorry for her. All that bright, manic energy seems to have seeped coolly out of her body and pooled around her feet.

“Well, hey. I didn’t say we couldn’t do it.” He gives her a smile, which he hopes looks comforting, instead of awkward. “Just - you might have to cut a few corners here and there.”

She nods, and Hank explains how she’ll have to use flowers that are already on order to the store - hydrangeas, roses, irises - special requests would be virtually impossible at this time. He shows her a few photographs of what he’ll realistically be able to achieve with the shorter notice. In turn, she assures him that the venue is not too far, her partner’s parents’ house, just outside of the city limits.

“So, you could do it then?” The anticipation in her eyes is like a child awaiting news about their birthday party.

“Sure.” 

Her face lights up with such a bright smile that he thinks for a second she’s going to lean over the counter and kiss him.

“Thank you…”

“Hank.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

“No problem.” And he hopes it won’t be, although weddings can be one of the more difficult events to cater for, he can’t help but feel like he’s going to make a real difference with this one. “Write your details down and I’ll give you a call once I’ve had a look at the stock.”

She scribbles her name - Blaire - and her telephone number onto the post-it that he offers her.

“I can’t wait to tell Traci, she’s going to be so happy.”

“Well, I’m glad to help.”

And with that, she breezes out, all of the edges to her crackling, static energy seeming to have smoothed themselves down.

With the shop empty again, Hank’s free to dwell on Connor’s absence. His lets his fingers trace the edge of the bird of paradise that Connor gave him, and props it up against the edge of the register. Customers have given him thank you cards before, especially when he’s provided the flowers for events, but they’re usually perfunctory, a few kind words and a signature. This feels far more personal. Deliberate, even. 

He hears his own words from before echoing inside his head - _you could come by any time, if you liked_ \- and he tries valiantly to put himself in Connor’s shoes to hear them. Would it be ridiculous to assume that Connor might want to spend some time in the store with him? He’d returned like clockwork on more than one occasion, making up bouquets that he could paint and then, presumably, discard. He’d had forethought enough to gift him one of those paintings. Wouldn’t it just make more sense for him to draw the flowers for free? 

On the other hand, would Connor really have any interest in spending extra time around the old, washed up florist with the dumb, loveable dog? Hank’s not convinced. The possibilities circle around each other in his head, whirling and overlapping until he’s positively dizzy with them. 

“What do you think, Sumo?” He asks, because, if in doubt, the font of all knowledge is your dog. Sumo pads over to him and pushes his head against Hank’s knee. The expression in his eyes seems to read a slightly baleful _I don’t know. You’re an idiot, Hank._ “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

Gavin comes back from his break about ten minutes later and helps Hank clean up the store, take the trash out, and towards the end of the day, make up orders for a few more customers. He thinks of Connor when he makes a traditional, slightly staid bouquet of pink and red roses, wondering what creative spin he might suggest was put onto the whole thing. 

In bed that night, his head wheels back and forth with his own words, with Connor’s words, the quiet see you and his polite wave. The delicately rendered bird of paradise that he’d left on the counter downstairs. You’re fifty-three, he tells himself, far too old to be puzzling over slightly flirtatious interactions with a customer. 

Hank even considers the idea of walking down to Jericho the next day, after all, it’s only a few stores down, and clarifying with Connor that whatever he wants to do is fine by him. That he’s perfectly at liberty to tell him to fuck off. That he’s perfectly free, too, to come and sit amongst his flowers and sketch them for as long as he likes.

He sleeps fitfully, and dreams of roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm aware that this chapter reads as a bit of a transition piece, and for that i apologise. i had intended for more to happen, but it just felt right to end it there. work/life has been a lot lately, so i can't wait to have some time off over the holidays to really delve into these characters. i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless!


	3. nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the rating has been raised just to be safe. our boys aren't quite there yet.

at winter's edge  
you found me  
by the fields of wild gold

* * *

The thing about self-doubt, Hank has discovered, is that it multiplies. It rarely stays put in one place, as a hard seed of uncertainty, but rather it takes on a mind of its own and buries itself deep, takes root and begins to flower. Its flowers bloom, deep and dark in colour, until they’ve become so abundant that you start to forget about the original seed of doubt from which they were born. 

These days, Hank thinks back on his youthful self-confidence with something akin to jealousy. Jealousy for what used to be, for his once unfazed attitude towards life, as if to be young meant that you were physically and emotionally indestructible. He remembers once, when he was twenty-one, twenty-two, pressing a confident kiss to the lips of his best friend, just to see where his burgeoning crush might get him. Turned out to be a sloppy blowjob on the sofa of his first apartment, a couple of flirty comments exchanged back and forth, until both of them realised that whatever they’d started probably wasn’t going anywhere. Everything mostly returned to normal, mostly no harm done. 

Looking back on these memories now is like recalling another person’s past. Hank’s envious of that brusque, clever guy, so unfazed by the possibility of his own failures. He’d always thought that you were meant to get more confident as you grew older, and that with the passing of the years you would start to give less of a shit. For Hank - who has been kicked repeatedly to the curb at different junctures in the past decade - the opposite is true. Nowadays, life has grown hard and tough around him, and like bindweed, has squeezed away a great deal of that boldness and self-assurance. 

Still. He puts on his bravest face, works with his flowers and tries not to let the doubt and nostalgia overwhelm him. 

When Connor doesn’t return to his store the following Monday, Hank can’t help but feel like he’s fucked up on a weirdly immense scale. All he’d suggested was that Connor came to the shop to draw, rather than take the flowers away with him, and that he could do it for free, rather than spending thirty dollars each time. But maybe the suggestion was too familiar? He feels like maybe he’s overstepped some unseen boundary by offering something more than just his professional skills and work ethic as a florist, like he’s stretched a hand out to offer Connor a friendship that he isn’t ready to accept.

Despite his long practised prowess at pushing down emotion, Hank can’t help but dwell, until he’s rucked it out of all proportion in his head. Did he manage to _insult_ Connor? He can’t imagine how, but perhaps his tone wasn’t right, or maybe Connor had misinterpreted his words as a personal comment in some way.

Or maybe Connor had seen the way Hank couldn’t stop watching him - the considered way that his hands moved over the heads of the flowers, the twist of his narrow wrists, the shift of his muscles beneath his intensely decorated skin - and decided that this pervy old man just wasn’t worth his time.

No matter what, Hank wishes he knew the real reason that Connor had decided not to return to his store. The worst thing about this is that he knows exactly where he can go to find the answer to that question: Jericho Tattoo Parlour, just four stores down from where he’s standing right now, watching Gavin check off their recently delivered orders on the computer. The proximity makes him feel like a coward. 

“Did you agree to do a wedding in two weeks time?” Gavin asks, looking up from the monitor. The incredulous crease between his eyebrows speaks volumes about what he thinks of Hank’s hastiness to take on what could be such a large project with such little notice. For someone who doesn’t really seem to give much of a shit about anything apart from his morning coffee and cigarette, Gavin actually has some pretty good business acumen. Hank probably should have considered the offer more carefully before agreeing to take it on, which must make Gavin the ruthless one of their odd pairing. Hank’s the one with the soft heart behind its casing.

Hank nods. “I checked the order forms for the next few weeks and we’ve talked it through on the phone. She knows it’s not gonna be a Clinton wedding.”

Gavin looks at him blankly.

“Whatever,” Hank continues, with a shake of his head. “I told her not to have high expectations. She wants a few pieces for the tables, a bridal bouquet, like six corsages.”

Gavin turns back to the computer with a roll of his eyes and a tone that clearly says - _I would have done this whole thing differently._ “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Hank retorts, his voice sharp enough to make Gavin shift uncomfortably in his seat and, thankfully, drop the subject.

The day is warm and they have the front door of the shop propped open, which encourages a steady stream of people inside, where it’s far cooler and darker than the brightness of the street. That morning, Hank had pulled a few empty buckets out onto their little section of the sidewalk and filled them with tall spears of larkspur, just arrived fresh that morning. Pink and purple, luminous white, heralding the turn into a new season. He’s not sure that this move actually helps them to sell that many more flowers, but the shop is certainly a little busier than usual.

He sees no faces that he recognises. 

As the afternoon grows golden, Sumo begins looking longingly through the open door to the street outside. He’s spent enough long dog years in the shop to know that there’s no benefit in making a bolt for it, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t stare at Hank with his big, dark eyes, hoping that his best mournful expression will get him exactly what he wants. 

“You want a walk?” Hank asks, and Sumo’s tongue lolls comically out of one side of his mouth. God, if this dog could talk, he thinks.

Gavin is outside the front of the store, using his phone to photograph the remaining larkspur stems falling against each other in their sunlit racks. Hank pokes his head around the edge of the door, dog lead in one hand, and Sumo pads out ahead of him, snuffling hopefully around Gavin’s feet. Gavin ignores him, which is nothing new.

“I’m going to take Sumo out,” Hank says. “Put the closed sign up if you like.”

Gavin shakes his head. “It’ll be fine.” 

“Okay. C’mon then.” He attaches the lead to the clip on Sumo’s collar and the dog gives a soft, grateful bark.

The street is pretty busy, the warm weather having encouraged people out. The coffee shop next door have put a few chairs and tables out onto the sidewalk, and as they pass, Sumo tries valiantly to make friends with the people who have the tastiest looking pastries laid out in front of them. The next two stores are of little interest to Sumo - he positively drags Hank past them - both little boutiques selling all manner of trinkets and weird, is new age things that Hank can’t possibly imagine having a use for. A strong smell of incense wafts through from one of their open doors. Hank remembers when there used to be a video rental place here, many years ago.

And then, Jericho Tattoo Parlour. It’s not like he’s surprised to see it - its dark façade is as much a part of his daily walks than anything else - but he is surprised to feel himself slow, his feet come to a stop, looking into the window. It’s difficult to see anything of the interior as the windows are boarded with photographs of their different artists’ work - some printed sketches, others lines and dots and thick bands of colour pressed into skin. He wonders if any of this is Connor’s work, and sure enough, he can see some flowers scattered in amongst the designs. 

“What do you think, Sumo?” He asks, absolutely unironically. 

In what Hank considers to be a perfectly human answer, Sumo takes a seat at his feet. The only way that his answer could have been clearer is if he’d stood on his hind legs and pushed him bodily towards the storefront. 

“This is stupid.” Sumo tilts his head to one side. “Fine.”

With a final look down the street to check that Gavin has gone back inside the shop, Hank pushes the door to Jericho open and heads inside.

The interior of the tattoo parlour is dark and cool, empty of customers and quiet except for the distant sound of a needle buzzing and the sound of a punk band playing over the stereo. The whole place has a sharp, distinctive smell - metallic and slightly sweet - which Hank instantly recognises as what he’d smelt against Connor’s skin that first day in his store. When Connor had stepped close to examine a spray of lilies, close enough to him that he could count the three freckles lining his upper lip. His heart balks a little bit at the thought of seeing him again. 

In the small reception area, there are cabinets containing jewellery and several shelves of books - at a glance, there’s a huge spread of subject matter, anything from architecture to the arts and crafts movement. A narrow corridor leads into the back of the shop, where the sporadic, mechanical buzzing is echoing from.

Hank approaches the reception desk, to the left of which hangs a framed picture of President Warren - complete with a marker pen neck tattoo that reads ‘ _Viva La Revolución_ ’. He can’t help but grin at the sight.

“Welcome to Jericho.” The man sitting behind the counter looks up and gives him a pleasant smile. He has a shock of white blond hair and very clear blue eyes, which are purple-ringed by tiredness in a way that makes him look older than Hank suspects he actually is. 

“I’m really sorry,” he says, and his tone of voice suggests that he really is sincerely apologetic for what he’s about to say, “but could you please leave your dog outside?” 

Hank looks behind him to see that, Sumo, ever the optimist, has followed him in.

“Oh, jeez - sorry. C’mon you,” he calls Sumo with a click of his tongue and leads him out of the door, the lead trailing lazily between his paws. Outside, Hank loops the lead around a lamppost. 

“I won’t be long,” he explains, crouching close to Sumo and giving him a quick scratch along the soft fur at his chest. And god if he hasn’t said that to this poor dog before, seconds later ducking inside a convenience store to come out with spoils tightly wrapped in a brown paper bag. The memories make shame flare brightly inside him and he almost unties the lead - after all, it would be easy enough for both of them to just continue on with the day.

“I’ve just gotta - do something.” Sumo looks at him inquisitively. “Your guess is as good as mine, buddy.” There’s no script written up in his head for what he’s going to say to Connor, but in a wild display of confidence, he decides that it’s best to cross that bridge when they come to it. 

With Sumo sniffing contentedly at the sidewalk, Hank takes a steadying breath - should his heart be beating quite so quickly? Should he be able to feel it jumping in his throat? - and goes back inside.

The blond man behind the counter gives him the same smile as before, calm and accommodating. “Thank you for that.”

“No problem.”

“Will he be okay outside?” There’s a genuine furrow of concern in his gentle features.

“Yeah.” That same guilt licks up like a flame. “He’ll be fine.” 

In the time that Hank has been outside, another figure has appeared behind the reception desk, sorting through what looks like a small box of business cards. Although his face is only in profile, Hank recognises him straight away, the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the single curl of dark hair falling down over one eye. It’s Connor, dressed this time in a black crew neck jumper that completely covers the bright designs worked onto the skin of his arms. The heartbeat in Hank’s throat performs a single, tight twist.

“So, how can I help you?”

“Uh - I was actually hoping to speak to Connor.” Even at the sound of his own name, Connor doesn’t turn to face him, simply moves to stand beside his colleague, leaning down so that he can compare one of the cards to an entry in a large paper diary. God, Hank thinks, maybe he really did fuck up and Connor’s just going to resolutely ignore him until he goes away. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all.

“I’m afraid Connor’s with a client right now.”

And the blond must be in on it too, because Hank can clearly see that Connor is standing right beside him, reaching for a pen so that he can make a note in the diary.

“Were you hoping for a consultation?” He continues amicably.

“No, I. Um -” The speed at which he’s managing to trip over his own words must have distracted Connor enough, because he finally glances up from the form in front of him and Hank can look at him properly for the first time.

Where he expects to see softness, honey-brown, he’s met instead by a pair of very sharp, ice blue eyes, all the sensitivity of Connor’s gaze chipped out into a hard stare that makes Hank feel like he’s having an interrogation torch shone into his face. There is no constellation map of freckles, no interesting imperfections, his skin is as smooth and unmarked as the petals of one of Hank’s roses. He’s wearing a silver ring in his nose, and a single black stud pierces the skin beneath his lower lip. 

Unless Connor has undergone some drastic changes in the last week, this man is very clearly not him. Surely a relation - his _twin_? At the very least his brother - but before any questions can be asked, he’s gone, disappearing down the narrow corridor behind the desk. It takes Hank a second to gather himself. The receptionist watches him patiently, letting Hank hash out whatever confusion is going on in his head.

“No, not a consultation,” he says after a moment. “I just wanted to have a word with him.”

“Well, I’m really sorry-” again, that genuine apology rings in his voice, seeming to stretch far beyond the usual _Sorrys_ of customer service. “But he’s with a client right now. He won’t be done for another few hours.”

Hank wonders what design Connor is working on today. Flowers, maybe, blooming vibrant beneath his fingers.

The man continues - “if you like, I can tell him you stopped by.”

“Yeah, alright,” Hank nods, “that’d be great.”

He reaches for a card in a clear plastic holder, emblazoned on one side with the Jericho logo and blank on the other, presumably to be filled in with details of upcoming appointments. “Can I take your name?”

“It’s Hank - Hank Anderson.”

He can’t help but notice a flicker of something pass over the man’s pleasant, impassive face. He’d say recognition, but he doesn’t want to flatter himself. “Okay,” he writes something on the card and pins it to a noticeboard on the wall behind him. The cork is divided into six sections, each with a different name at the top of it, and he fits the card neatly beneath Connor’s heading. “Thank you for stopping by, Hank. I’ll let Connor know you were here.”

“Thanks.”

As he leaves, the opening brass of Respect by Aretha Franklin replaces the screaming guitar solo that was playing over the speakers. Eclectic taste, Hank thinks.

Back outside, he unties Sumo’s lead from the lamppost and the dog looks up at him again with those dark, curious eyes. 

“Let’s see, huh?” He mutters as they turn down an alleyway that leads through to the riverside park. With each step closer to the river, he feels relief begin to spread slowly across his shoulders. At least he’s done something to assuage some of his doubt, to remove some of the question marks from the thoughts that had been tumbling over one another in his head. The ball’s in Connor’s side of the court now - if that’s an appropriate analogy in any way - it’ll be his decision to pull himself closer to Hank or to drop their tentatively strung ties altogether. He thinks of Connor’s gentle brown eyes and wishes for it to be the former.

When he returns to the shop about forty five minutes later, Gavin is back out on the street, pulling the now empty flower rack back into the store. Hank unclips Sumo’s lead and lets him inside, where he heads straight for his water bowl and his bed against the back wall. 

“Everything okay?” Hank asks, taking one side of the stand and helping Gavin to manoeuvre it over the threshold.

“Actually, the store set on fire while you were gone.” Gavin says, deadpan.

Hank nods. “Good to know.”

* * *

The next day dawns cooler, with heavy purple clouds pushing a rainstorm over the horizon. They certainly don’t need to have the door pushed open today, there are no flowers adorning the sidewalk, and at about noon, the rain begins to pour down in heavy sheets. The street outside turns grey and slick, and the stones are dull glimmers in the little sunlight that manages to shine through the thick sky.

Hank doesn’t expect many customers and he’s not wrong. Most of the people who come into the store are just sheltering from the rain, shaking big droplets off their umbrellas and browsing the collection of greeting cards and other small gifts before daring to venture outside again. He makes up a few small bouquets and he and Gavin check the cool storage to fix their orders for the next few weeks.

“We’ll need more of the white roses if we’re going to cater this wedding,” Gavin says, “if they’re what she wants.”

Hank has a feeling that the wedding is going to be a matter of contention between the two of them for a while yet. “Fine, but not yet. I’ll put them on order for the next week. And more peonies.”

Gavin takes a note of the piece of paper in front of him. 

“It’s going to be more expensive.”

“We’re going to get paid in return,” Hank comments dryly. “Surprisingly.”

Before Gavin can form a retort, the bell rings softly out on the empty storefront. Not keen on letting Sumo be the only one to greet clients at the door, Hank extricates himself from the thoughts of numbers, quantities, extra flowers. 

“I’ll be back, Gavin.” He just nods in response, part way through totting up a calculation. 

Sumo’s already found his way over to the customer, who is dripping rain off their grey waxed jacket and onto the floor.

“Hello.” 

“Connor.” God, it’s good to see him. “Hi.”

Connor runs a hand through his wet curls, slicking them back away from his face. It makes him look older, somehow. He blinks and a droplet of rain, stuck in his long eyelashes, dissipates. “Hi. It’s really raining out there.”

“Yeah.” Hank suspects that he isn’t here to talk about the weather, so he pushes on, emboldened by the shine of water on Connor’s cheekbones. “I came by your work yesterday.”

“Simon said,” Connor says, with a smile, and then in further explanation, “he’s our receptionist.”

“He seemed nice,” Hank says gruffly, and he instantly thinks the comment a little childish, so he’s glad when Connor nods in sincere agreement.

“He is.” Connor bends down to pat Sumo and continues, not looking towards Hank. “And - I think you met my brother too.”

He remembers those icy blue eyes, the pale face so like and yet so unlike Connor’s own.

“Well,” he shrugs, thinking of the way that he had disappeared so quickly into the back of Jericho, not even sticking around to see what Hank might want with his brother. “I didn’t really meet him.”

“Hm.” He gives Sumo a scratch behind the ear and a few whispered good boys, before he straightens up again. When he speaks, his voice is softened by something which Hank suspects is a great tenderness for his sibling. “Nines doesn’t really do small talk.”

“Nines?” 

“Yes.” Clearly Hank hasn’t misheard and Connor isn’t going to offer any insight into what is - presumably - a nickname turned consistent first name, so Hank doesn’t press him further.

“He looks a lot like you. I gotta say -” Hank laughs, one hand rubbing along his beard, “I thought he was you at first.”

“You’re not the first person to say that,” Connor says, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s flattered or exasperated by the comment. Hank suddenly has a sharp, piercing desire to learn more about their relationship, these two brothers and their mother who will only accept the most perfect of roses.

Connor doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic to continue the conversation, however, so Hank drops it. Maybe there will be a time to discuss it in the future, when Hank’s not wearing his florist’s apron, his shirtsleeves rolled up, pollen gathered in the folds of his clothes.

“I hope you didn’t think it was too…” Hank pauses, wishing he’d composed something smart and apt before speaking. _Weird? Creepy?_ “Forward. Me coming in.”

Connor grins, shaking his head. “No. I wanted to take you up on your offer.” And from beneath his coat, sequestered to keep it away from the rain, he pulls a black sketchbook and a roll of pencils. So he hasn’t come here to have an awkward conversation about his work and family situation and then to tell Hank in his very particular polite way to fuck off. He’s actually brought his materials in the hope of sitting and sketching. Hank can see him now, coat shrugged off to show his uniquely decorated arms, one leg folded over the other, high, smooth brow creased in concentration.

“You said if I wanted to draw the flowers I could come by any time.” The bright smile has slipped somewhat, his tone a little concerned. That was just step one, Hank tells himself, now you’ve got to actually be charming and make him want to stay for more than five minutes. “I finished early today so I figured-”

As if on cue to trample all over the new blooms of whatever it is that Hank has managed to delicately sow, Gavin emerges from the storeroom. He looks determined, and Hank can tell that he’s about to launch immediately into business talk without even considering the fact that there’s a client in the store.

“Hank, we need to-” He gives Connor a quick, perfunctory glance - and at the sight of him, his purposeful expression disintegrates, the colour sliding rapidly from his cheeks. “Hello.” 

The look on Gavin’s face is unlike one Hank has ever seen before. Does he already know Connor? (Hank hopes to any listening higher power that that’s not the case.) Or maybe Hank’s just seeing a perfect reflection of his own expression the first day that he had met Connor, his face coloured at the sight of the single dark freckle on the side of his nose. Hank doesn’t know anything about Gavin’s sexual or romantic proclivities, and Connor’s certainly an arresting figure, even covered in rain water, with his curls drying loosely around his face.

Hank takes it upon himself to jump in the wake of Gavin’s uncharacteristic speechlessness. Never let it be said that he’s not a good boss. “Gavin, this is Connor,” Connor nods politely at him. “He’s come to draw some of the flowers.”

“Right, Connor. Hi.” He builds his previous expression of businesslike determination back onto his face again, brick by brick. “Anyway, Hank, about those white roses…”

Needless to say, Gavin isn’t particularly happy about Connor’s reason for being there, once Connor has left and Hank explains himself. _If he’s not buying them, then what’s the point? It’s twenty, thirty dollars thrown away each time he doesn’t take the flowers away with him!_ Hank knows he’s right and he finds that, alongside that fact, he doesn’t really care. 

Connor returns several times over the next week, each time bringing with him the same small sketchbook and roll of drawing pencils. He never stays very long, no more than an hour, but he has an easy, calming presence which settles itself between Hank’s shoulders for the rest of the day. Gavin throws him the side-eye every now and then, but he doesn’t say anything - Hank’s grateful that for once he’s accepted his boss’s decision and decided not to argue back.

When Connor visits, he sits in one corner of the shop and gets on with whatever he’s doing that day in a studious, serious manner, not disturbing Hank as he works or the customers in their purchases. Hank wonders if they even realise he’s there. He doesn’t talk a lot, at least not about himself, and when he does, he mostly asks Hank questions about the flowers, about the shop.

“What are these called?” Connor asks one day, rubbing his fingers over a thick, velvety white bloom. The rain at the beginning of the week has been blown away over the lakes, warm, dry winds from the south meaning that the door to the shop is pushed open again. Today, they have pulled buckets of huge, yellow roses out onto the street.

“These are gardenia.” Hank replies, joining him. 

“ _Gardenia_ ,” Connor repeats the word, as if testing it out in his mouth, securing the sound in his memory. “Do they mean anything?”

It’s not often that people ask about the meaning of flowers anymore; it’s a little bit antiquated and something that most find detracts from the overall appearance of a bouquet. But Hank’s mother, ever the traditionalist, had schooled him in the language of flowers - it was important, she’d said, even if it wasn’t something to be used often. 

Hank swallows, clears his throat. Watches Connor’s eyelashes as he studies the gardenia flower in the warm light from the window. “Secret love.”

Connor makes a sound of interest, a little vague - _huh_ \- and moves to continue on with his drawing. 

The next time, he asks Hank how long he’s worked in the store. 

“Ten years,” Hank replies. “Properly, at least - my mom owned the store before me. Anderson family business.”

“What did you do before?”

“You like your questions, don’t you?” Hank grins, hoping that the question comes off as a good-natured stopper to Connor’s curiosity. It’s not that he doesn’t want to share, but he knows all too well that for him sharing becomes heavy and hard after a while. That questions inevitably lead to places that he’s unwilling to go, where he’s scared to tread, to photographs and screeching car tyres and a boy’s blue, blue eyes.

“Oh.” Connor looks a little put out, although he’s quick to gather himself again. “I suppose so.”

On his fourth visit, late on Saturday afternoon, Hank decides that it’s his turn to ask a few questions of Connor. It’s clear from their previous conversations that there’s a lot of subjects that will cause the other man to clam up, for whatever reason, and it’s probably not his place to reach in any deeper there. Hank’s wondered over his past few visits if discussion of his work will elicit the same reaction. He hopes not. He wants to see Connor’s face lit bright by passion.

Unfortunately, Connor seems pretty private about what goes into his sketchbook, although Hank doesn’t know whether because he’s shy of what he’s produced or because he doesn’t really think that Hank will care. But he does care, and he’s curious, and it can’t hurt to try, right?

“Can I see?” He approaches Connor, one empty hand outstretched. Connor’s eyes flicker between his palm, his face, and back to his palm again, as if trying to ascertain that this is really what Hank is asking him for. When he finally speaks, his voice is as measured as ever.

“Of course,” he flips a few pages back, offers the book to Hank. “Here.”

The pages that Connor has chosen to show him are not the pencil sketches that he’s done in the store, surrounded by Hank’s flowers. He’s worked into them more, and there are tall, bright irises, their purple petals and yellow centres highlighted by dark lines, and peonies, their heads rendered in a gleaming two-tone ochre and gold. The colours he has added are vibrant, a step further than real life. He’s even used the greenery, sending it into dark tendrils that wrap through the flowers and out again, and added delicate embellishments, like window panes and the bubbling crests of waves. 

Hank stares at them for a long moment, before Connor breaks his silence.

“What do you think?”

“They’re not like-” he gestures to the board behind the counter, where he’s pinned up Connor’s delicate painting of the bird of paradise. “They’re good. Really good.”

“That one wasn’t good?” Connor asks, his mouth curved into a grin.

“No! No, it was.” Hank can feel the colour rise in his face. “These are different.”

“These are more the style of what I tattoo. That one was just-” he pauses for a second, as if unable to find the right word. “For fun.”

Hank nods, handing the sketchbook back. “They’re really good.” Think of something constructive, for god’s sake. 

“You should come in for a consultation.” The way Connor says it - quick, words tumbling over one another - makes Hank think that it’s a half formed thought, pushed in a daring moment from between his lips. He continues, as if to justify himself, “I do touch ups, covers. Not only new pieces.”

Hank considers it for a moment. Imagines the piece on his chest, smudged and worn with age and a tattooist who was probably a little hastily chosen in the first place, recreated as vivid and fresh as the pieces between the pages of Connor’s sketchbook. 

“And you wouldn’t _have_ to-”

“Okay.”

“Really?” Connor’s expression is rightfully taken aback, because even Hank is surprised by his own positive response. 

“Yeah. Why not?” 

Connor’s face splits with a smile as bright as sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and for all the lovely comments people have been sending in. if you like, come and yell at me on twitter: @andpersephone


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